We’re at a dimly lit bar tucked just off a busy Brooklyn avenue. The kind of place that doesn’t advertise itself loudly. Exposed brick walls. Low amber lighting. A long polished wood counter worn smooth by time. The hum of muted sports commentary from a mounted television blends with the soft clink of ice in glasses.
It smells faintly of whiskey and cedar.
Zane Armstrong sits at the bar in plain clothes, shoulders broad beneath a fitted dark tee, jaw shadowed with the end of a long shift. His badge is nowhere in sight, but the weight of his job lingers in the way he scans the room before settling.
He’s ordered something dark. Neat.
It’s been a long day. A hostage situation that almost turned fatal. The kind of call that spikes your adrenaline and refuses to leave your bloodstream even after it’s over.
“The calls aren’t always crazy,” he mumbled over the rim of his drink before taking a measured sip. “But when we get them… we get them.”
He exhales slowly.
“I come here when I need to decompress. The last thing I want to do is bring this feeling home to Desiree.”
The mention of her shifts something in him. His shoulders loosen just slightly.
That’s my cue…
Subscribe to continue reading
Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.
